An Audience With Black Marble
by High-Functioning Ginger
Summary: John visits the cemetery after Sherlock's death. He talks and hopes that somehow Sherlock can hear him. Because there are a lot of things he left unsaid. And damn him if he's not going to take advantage of the fact that Sherlock is finally silent. A series of drabbles detailing John's cemetery conversation with Sherlock. Angst and hints of slash.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Do I really need to start yet another fic when my others remain unfinished? No. Will I start one anyway? Of course. This will be a series of drabbles ranging from 100-500 words per chapter depending on how much John has to say. For the chapters coming after this it will be mostly dialogue.**

Harsh breaths in a quick succession filled the air forming a sharp rhythm. John focused on the sound as he finally came to stand in front of the dark stone with white letters carved out, forming words with a painful clarity. _Sherlock Holmes_

He couldn't remember the last time he stood here. Actually, that's not entirely true. He simply doesn't want to remember_. I was so alone and I owe you so much._ When he'd said it he didn't even realize how true it was. But it's better not to dwell on the past isn't it?

He flexes his fingers instinctually around the hand-hold of his cane and shifts his feet, as if preparing to run. It's a tempting idea, bolting away and never looking back. A wry laugh forms in the back of his throat, choking him, as he considers the idea. There's no way he'd manage a sprint like that. No these days.

So instead he halts his fidgeting and squares his shoulders, setting his jaw firmly, then begins his mission. That's how he thinks of it. It's a challenge he's issued to himself. And order he's given himself.

Days ago, nearly two weeks now, when he awoke from a dark nightmare with Sherlock's name upon his lips he recalled his often uttered prayer _Please don't be dead. _Nearly a year since he first spoke it and the plea is still unanswered. He realized it was time to accept the fact it _would never_ be answered and he had to act accordingly.

On the battlefield there is always death. He knows this. He always has. And a proper soldier shouldn't ignore it. They shouldn't run desperately towards life and abandon their fallen comrades to the decay within the earth. Shouldn't leave their memories alone, lingering by moss covered trees and stone pillows.

No, a proper soldier should honor the fallen, befriend their shades. Never ignore them. Grief is one thing. Cowardice is another. And if there is one thing John Watson isn't, it's a coward. A single thought consumed his mind, until he finally relented. _Go see him._

So now he's here, to bear witness to Sherlock's shade. To hold an audience with black marble and hope that somehow Sherlock can hear him. Because there are a lot of things he left unsaid. And damn him if he's not going to take advantage of the fact that Sherlock is finally silent. He just wishes Sherlock would reply. _He'll outlive god trying to have the last word. _If only that where true.


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: This picks up where the other chapter left off. What John says on his first visit.**_

"I'm sorry I haven't been here in a while. It's been, what, almost a year right? Your funeral wasn't it?" _Shuffling of feet and a cough to dispel with sudden weight in his throat. _

"I've um, well I've just been busy." _Sharp shake of his head._

"No, no. That's not true. Not really. I have been busy mind you. I_ have _to be busy. But that's not why I've stayed away. Because that's what I've been doing you know. Staying away. It's not that I just haven't made it over here. It's not that I haven't made an effort to come. I've made an effort to stay away." _Draws a deep breath and glances at the surrounding grass and trees, anything to take a break from looking at the headstone_

"I just – never mind. I thought you wouldn't care. I mean, you're not even here are you? Not really. You probably think I'm an idiot for standing here talking to this bloody chunk of rock with your bones rotting underneath. Just transport right?" _His voice threatens to crack and he pauses for a brief second because he will not break down here. Not in front of Sherlock._

"That's what I told myself anyway, for months. You wouldn't care if I came by, so why bother? But it's bunch of rubbish really. I mean, maybe you do care and maybe you don't, I don't know. But the real reason I stayed away was because I didn't want to see you here. It's – I mean – it's real here. Not that it isn't real other places, I mean no matter where I go you're going to be dead but-" _he pauses, trying to collect his thoughts so he can better explain it_

"In the flat it's too clean. It's too quiet" _A hollow laugh escapes his throat; sounding weak and harsh to his ears _

"I never thought I'd say that. But it's like you've gone on holiday or something. Like maybe one day you'll come back. But here – with the damn flowers and rocks and crosses - here I know you aren't coming back and I-" _his voice breaks then falls into silence. He closes his eyes, perhaps to fight back tears or perhaps to get a respite from the sight before him. After several heartbeats he opens them and there is a light of determination._

"But I know how you get when you're left on your own for too long. You just make a mess of things and you get bored and I really don't want to poor night watchman to have a heart attack because you decide decomposition is too boring or something..." _he clears his throat, though if it's a laugh or sob that's lodged there he can't tell _

"But anyway – I'm going to start coming to see you more, okay? I don't know how often or anything, but I'll be here. And you'd better be too." _He nods sharply once, then turns on his heel and limps determinedly away, not allowing himself to glance back._


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN: I said that these would be short -100-500. Looks like I was wrong and they'll be more like 450-700 words – so not quite drabbles... Anyway – Enjoy!**_

_John approached Sherlock's grave at a slow limp. Nearly three weeks had passed since his last visit. The air was warm and thick as spring approached. He clutched a bouquet of flowers in one hand. In the other the head of his cane rested. _

"Morning. I um - I don't know why I said that. I mean, it's not as if it matters to you whether it's morning or not. But I guess - never mind."

_He cut's himself off, and rests his cane against his leg, so he can clench it, open-closed-open-closed, subtly venting his emotion._

"I realized the other week that I've never brought you flowers. I mean, I've only come twice before now - but still, it's the thing to do isn't it? Bring flowers."

_He chokes off the last syllable of the word in something akin to a harsh sob. The words, the phrasing sound too familiar. "That's what people do isn't it? Leave a note" He purses his lips for a brief moment, ensuring that he's under control before he speaks again._

"And as soon as I thought of it I realized how stupid I was because the idea of bringing you flowers is ridiculous, right? Base sentimentality, you'd call it. Or something like that anyway. You'd think it was stupid, bringing the heads of plants to rot above your grave. Or something like that. You'd make a touching gesture seem silly and foolish – it's a gift of yours."

_He tries for a laugh at the thought. Something to dispel the knot forming in his throat. But it comes out harsh and he nearly winces, despite himself. Squaring his shoulder he continues._

"For three days that's all I could think about. But then I realized that you probably think I'm an idiot for coming here at all. You'd laugh if you knew that I've kept your violin and all your books and that no one goes in your room. I mean you're gone right? And you're never coming back and - I - well - I've kept everything like you just might be bac-"

_He stops abruptly there and curses under his breath. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't intended to admit that even though he promised himself and Mrs. Hudson and Harry and everyone that he would move on, he was still hoping deep within his being that Sherlock would return. He lets out a self-depreciating snort before continuing._

"Stupid I know. I'm an idiot and I get that, but I don't care anymore. So I brought you flowers. And you'd better enjoy them you twat."

_As he says this he tosses the flowers at the head stone. Not how he'd imagined doing it, of course. He'd meant to lay them softly on the earth over Sherlock's grave. Reverential, respectful. Isn't that how you're supposed to treat the dead? But this was Sherlock and he always complicated things and he'd often chucked things at Sherlock anyway. The bouquet hits the stone with a muffled thump and falls to the ground, petals scattering. _

"I got you some interesting ones at least. Belladonna, Foxglove and Hemlock." _He adds, almost apologetic for his violent delivery of them _

"They're all poisonous. Lethal. Course you know that already... So um - there you are. I've brought you flowers. Enjoy them."

_He finishes the sentence with a hint of an order in his tone, not unlike the way he used to speak to Sherlock when he was being difficult. He gave a firm nod and then takes up his cane, limping away._


End file.
